He was released for a single hour each day at noon to shower and eat a lunch, unfailingly served on a rusting metal tray and consisting of a single slice of bread, a tall glass of somewhat cool water (the glass was plastic, of course), a small piece of some meat and a vegetable, the latter two having had all the flavor boiled out of them. Breakfast and dinner, which were even more humble, he ate in his cell.
A bare light bulb burned eternally overhead. He unscrewed it once and was severely beaten, then placed in a straightjacket for forty-eight hours.
The only furniture, per se, in the cell was a seatless metal toilet, its sheen scrubbed dull. It flushed automatically every six hours. Stephen did his best to schedule his use of it.
An inlaid crucifix made of dark red bricks decorated the gray cinderblock wall behind the toilet.
The Church-State had granted Josef Messinjure a fifteen-minute Compassion Visit on the last day of his son’s life four hours before the broadcast of his execution, scheduled to begin at 8 PM Eastern, 7 Central, 5 Pacific. Phoebus accompanied his master to the massive facility, one of ten foreboding mega-prisons built after the Holy Revolution to house ten thousand prisoners each.
An electronically garbled voice over a small speaker at the gate instructed them to park the car in a specific spot where all three—master, slave and chauffeur—were to exit the vehicle and walk to the Visitors Entrance on the other side of the gargantuan parking lot. Above the entrance was a large, weather-beaten sign:
ALL VISITORS WILL BE SEARCHED FOR WEAPONS, DRUGS, ELECTRONIC
COMMUNICATION DEVICES AND ALL OTHER FORBIDDEN AND ILLEGAL
ITEMS. THE PRISON RESERVES THE RIGHT TO STRIP SEARCH ANY
VISITOR. FAILURE TO COMPLY WITH ESTABLISHED REGULATIONS AND
POLICIES MAY RESULT IN WARNING, TERMINATION, SUSPENSION, OR
REVOCATION OF VISITATION PRIVILEGES.
The entrance was a simple, unimpressive door door that opened to a sizable room with three cinderblock walls painted stark white. The fourth wall, if it could be called such, was made of black metal bars and had an imposing metal door in the center. These vertical bars connected to a horizontal one connected to the walls just below the point where they began to curve in their transition to the high vaulted ceiling overhead. The gap between the horizontal bar the top of the ceiling was filled with a nasty, thick mass of coiled barbed wire. Directly above the door, welded to the crossbar, was a large golden crucifix. Beyond this penal rood screen stretched a long hallway that seemed to go on forever. Phoebus could see guards making their way from one place to another, but he didn’t see any prisoners.
To the left four expressionless guards stood in front of a long wooden table pushed up against the wall. Their legs were spread wide. The two inner guards held their clasped hands in front of their groins, and the two outer ones held long rifles.
To the right was a reception window where a sour-looking middle-aged man greeted them by ordering Master Josef to show his ID. The little slave had been ordered to lift his shirt so one of the hand-clasping guards could scan the bar code tattooed high on his side near his armpit. A large monitor above the reception window displayed Phoebus’ most recent annual photo, name, age, height, weight, blood type, and address, as well as confirming that he was the property of Josef Messinjure as of such-and-such a date.
Both master and slave were ordered to place the contents of their pockets into a small metal box (Phoebus only had a pack of gum), which Mr. Sourpuss locked and put onto a shelf after handing Mast Josef a ticket. They they had to lift their arms so they could be patted down by the guards not holding rifles. They found nothing, of course. Then, as the burlier guard pulled on a pair of rubber gloves he turned toward Phoebus and commanded, “STRIP, SLAVE!”
Phoebus was mortified. He looked frantically around the room, but not a hint of sympathy from any of the strangers. Master Josef just stared straight ahead as if he were the only one in the room. Didn’t even make eye contact when his slave looked at him imploringly.
“NOW!” the guard barked. “And hurry up!”
Phoebus began to disrobe as fast as he could, humiliated at the thought of being naked in front of anyone, let alone strangers. He hoped they’d think he was shivering from the cold air.
“Now, turn around,” the guard said when the little slave was completely nude, “bend over and grab your ankles.”
Phoebus obediently bent over and grabbed his bare ankles. He began to feel dizzy as the blood rushed to his head though he didn’t dare look up.
“Wider!” the guard yelled and Phoebus had to let go of his ankles and rest his hands on the icy floor to spread his legs further. He prayed for this to end soon.
The guard walked up beside the little slave, grabbed his waist with one hand to steady him against his own leg as he roughly shoved a finger slickened with cold gel into the his exposed anus. It was very painful and the little slave was unable to stifle a small whimper. He felt dizzy and sick to his stomach, afraid he might shit in the guard’s hand as the brute probed his bowel by turning his greasy fat finger this way and that.
A good slave’s gaze is always down and earthbound, he repeated over and over in his head.
A good slave’s gaze is always down and earthbound.
A good slave’s gaze is always down and earthbound.
A good slave’s gaze is always down and earthbound.
When the guard was good and satisfied that the little slave wasn’t hiding anything up his asshole, he pulled out his finger, slipped off the rubber glove with a snap and ordered him to get dressed, which Phoebus did as fast as he could.
The cold goo stuck to his underwear.
“America needs a tidal wave of old time religion!” Josef Messinjure had often declared from his pulpit.
When Phoebus was small he’d sit on the floor next to Stephen’s chair offstage and watch, mesmerized, as his master preached to the entire nation. In the darkness beyond the blinding klieg lights he could hear the massive congregation in the church-studio—ten thousand strong six nights a week—shout out Amen! and Praise the Lord! and Amen! again. Other times he and Stephen would watch the sermon on the TV in Master Josef’s dressing room. For years Stephen had refused to sit onstage or even among the congregants. Some elementary school bullies had given him a pretty good beating after seeing him on “daddy’s TV show” the night before. He kicked and screamed the next night when they tried to drag him onstage. The last thing the network execs wanted was the sight of their star’s son whimpering in the background with tears streaming down his cheeks, so that was the end of that.
Slaves, of course, weren’t permitted inside Liberty Chapel, as the massive church-studio complex was called. They had their own churches and chapels where they’d sing and pray and murmur their chaplets. And by law everyone, slave and freeman alike regardless of status, had to attend Sunday services and donate twenty percent of their income, fifteen percent for those who made one hundred thousand dollars a year (who were very few), five percent for millionaires (who were fewer still), and so on. Since slaves had no earnings, the Servus Publicus laws stipulated, among other things, that all slaves age thirteen and above were required to annually perform thirty hours of public service such as painting curbs, mopping floors, picking up trash, etc. (Adept party sycophants often found themselves with an extra slave or two—temporarily, of course, and free of charge—as a bonus remuneration, officially, for their loyalty and dedicated service to the Church-State.)
There was also compulsory Bible Study once a week, and all had to watch Master Josef preach live every Sunday through Thursday night on EBN at 8 Eastern, 7 Central. Every student in America was subject to an early morning quiz on the previous night’s sermon. Slaves weren’t quizzed, of course. There was no school for them. It was legal to teach slaves the basics of reading, writing and simple math, but most slave owners didn’t see the need—let them remain the beasts of burden God intended the to be. Besides, an educated slave is a dangerous slave.
“I want everyone to join me in a pledge!” Master Josef would occasionally proclaim to his viewing audience. He would do this often enough for it to be part of his regular shtick, but no one seemed to mind. When he spoke again, his voice would be soft. “I want you to pledge that you will never, ever rest until this sinful old world...”—here his voice would begin to crescendo—“...is bound to the cross of Jesus Christ by the golden chains of love!”
Listening to Josef Messinjure could be like riding in a rowboat on a stormy sea.
“I know I’ve asked you to take this pledge many times before. And I’ll ask you many times again, for if homosexuals were once again granted our precious civil rights, why then we’d have to grant those same civil rights to prostitutes…”—crescendo—“...thieves and even child molesters! I do not want to live in a world where the vile dregs of humanity have the same rights and freedoms as decent, normal, God-fearing Americans!” Pause. “And I don’t think you do, either.” Then he’d snicker into the microphone. “Why, I can’t even think of them as human, to be honest. They are less than human. They are sub-human. They are the crud of crud! The most putrid scum to befoul the human race! We do not allow bacteria and viruses to marry, do we? Do we condone the holy union of microbes swimming in a petri dish? No! Of course not! Marriage can never again be torn asunder from its traditional and natural roots!”
He’d grab the edges of the podium and let his head hang down, waiting a good ten seconds before lifting his chin and looking out over the audience before looking directly into the camera and chuckling.
“Why is homosexuality a sin? You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve been asked that question. ‘Why is homosexuality a sin?’ I’ll tell you why homosexuality itself and not just a homosexual act is a sin, my good brethren. It is a sin because the Bible says it is a sin! I have never in my life seen any man I wanted to marry! And if another man even looked at me with sinful lust in his eyes, I swear on the Good Book that I would kill him without a moment’s hesitation! I would destroy that monster! And when I got to the pearly gates ol’ Saint Peter himself would thank me for ridding mankind of such a repugnant creature!”
He’d pause here to wipe his forehead with the white handkerchief in his dark blazer’s breast pocket.
“God says in both the Old Testament and the New Testament that homosexuality is an abomination. An abomination! It’s right there in the Bible, and more than once.
“Leviticus 18: ‘Thou shall not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is...’”—pausing for dramatic effect—“...an abomination.’”
All across America the great congregation murmured approval.
“Leviticus 20...”
“May I please use the bathroom, sir?” Phoebus asked in as meek and submissive a voice as he could muster.
“No!” the guard barked. “Keep moving!”
The little slave and his master were escorted through the imposing door under the golden cross by all four guards. They’d only walked down the hallway a short distance when they reached a tall and steep metal staircase that led to prison’s basement. It was so narrow they had to descend single file. The stairs squeaked and groaned with each man’s step. (By contrast, the little slave’s steps had little effect.)
At the bottom were three beat-up old golf carts, but the guards ignored them and walked straight ahead, on and on down the endless, deserted hallway. The walls’ faded white paint was peeling near the ceiling. About every twenty feet hallways branched off to the left and right, and at each intersection stenciled black letters underneath a stenciled black cross identified the passages as BLOCK 2, BLOCK 33, STORAGE WING 15, BLOCK 57, BOILER WING 10, etc.
Bright bare fluorescent tubes buzzed overhead. They walked past prison cell door after prison cell door after prison cell door. There were no bars like you’d see in the movies. Just doors. Phoebus wondered if there were really men on the other side of each door. Wondered what they were doing. Were they watching TV? Did they have TVs in their cells? Or books or video games?
The little slave was looking down at the floor as they walked, noting from the dried swirls that it had been recently mopped it with dirty water. Still, the pine-scented dirty mop water failed to completely mask either the pervasive scent of mildew or the faint background smell of feces.
From the outside the prison had looked a mile long. It was stuck in the middle of the lonely countryside far from any city. The land was flat, and trees had been cleared as far as the eye could see. There wasn’t a single building in sight.
Phoebus glanced up and saw the letters SHU painted on the wall just before they turned the corner. The guard behind him grabbed the top of his head and roughly shoved it down toward the floor before kicking his ass so hard he fell to his knees, intensifying his need to pee.
“Get up!”
The little slave scrambled to his feet and hurried to keep up.
They walked about another twenty feet when the guards stopped in front of a door. It was unremarkable clone of the innumerable nondescript gray metal doors they’d passed. In the top half was a little window with a little metal door of its own. One of the guards hit the door once with his club that sent a clanging echo down the empty hallway. Someone on the other side opened the door’s little window. The guard inside, looking as grim as his colleagues, looked at the group for a few seconds, and without anyone uttering a word he unbolted the door and it creaked open.
The rectangular room wasn’t much different than the prison it inhabited: cement floor and ceiling, windowless cinderblock walls. But gray and never painted. Phoebus’ heart began to race when he saw Stephen seated to their left at the far end of the room, a guard on each side of him. He sat in a simple metal folding chair just like the ones that fill every church basement. Cold, hard and stoic. His wrists were cuffed in front of him. His ankles were shackled with a long chain that looped through the triangles attached above the intersections where the chair’s front and rear legs crossed paths. He was slouching, which seemed odd. His knees spread wide. Stephen watched in silence as his father and the little slave were escorted to an identical metal chair at the opposite end of the room. It lacked rubber cushions on the ends of its legs, and when it shifted slightly as the old preacher sat down, it let out a wince-worthy sharp screech that bounced off the floor and walls.
Phoebus stood next to Master Josef. He felt oddly shy. A guard behind him pressed the hard edge of the tip of his boot against the back of the little slave’s knee, forcing him to kneel, falling first to his hand and knees. He let out a pitiful little yelp as the rough cement floor scoured his skin.
Then—uncomfortable silence for at least two minutes. A few times Phoebus thought his master was about to say something but he just cleared his throat instead. The guards stared straight ahead, didn’t say anything. Didn’t move. Statues. Phoebus himself didn’t dare say anything.
Finally Master Josef muttered, “H-how are they treating you, Stephen?”
Stephen stared at his father, snickered and shook his head.
“How are they treating me, Dad?” he asked. “How are they treating me? You said a million times that America is Heaven on Earth so they must be treating me like a fucking saint. When the guards aren’t slapping me around they’re making me suck their cocks.”
“That’s a lie!” one of the guards behind Phoebus yelled.
“Fuck you, you lying fuck!” Stephen screamed back. A guard behind him clocked him upside the head with his rifle butt. The wailed out in pain as he and his chair fell noisily to the floor. The guard on the other side of him stepped forward, grabbed the back of Stephen’s neck and the back of his chair at the same and jerked both boy and chair back into an upright position.
Phoebus felt sick. Master Josef struggled not to cry, but the little slave was already wiping away his own tears.
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Master Josef said. “I-I. . . I don’t know what to say. I can’t undo what’s been done. I’m sorry, Stephen.” His vo
ice began to quiver. “This is all my fault. I should’ve kept my mouth shut. I never dreamed they’d go after you.”
“But that’s what they do, Dad. You know that. You’ve always known that. That’s how they operate. But don’t worry; by this time tomorrow I’ll be dead and you won’t have to worry about me anymore.”
“Please stop, Stephen,” the old preacher said, sounding older by the second. “I can’t bear the thought.”
“But I won’t be with Jesus,” his son said, more to himself than his father. “I don’t believe in Jesus anymore. Or God. By this time tomorrow I simply won’t exist.”
There was silence for a long time as both father, son and slave quietly sobbed.
When Stephen spoke again his voice was soft and pleading. “Please,” he said, “just go away.”
Master Josef wiped his tears away with his hand before letting out a long sigh of defeat. He stood up and his little slave stood up with him. The guards behind them closed ranks. As they started toward the exit the little slave heard Stephen say, “Goodbye, Phoebus.” And then a guard shoved him through the door.
Chapter Eight
Back Home
The old preacher and his young slave, as well as the anonymous chauffeur who came with the rented limo, were silent all the way home. Master Josef spent most of the ride with his eyes closed, his elbow on the armrest, his head supported his fingertips. Everyone once in a while he’d wipe away some fresh tears.
It was late autumn and most of the trees were bare, their gnarled branches clawing at the sky. Phoebus watched the darkening dreary landscape roll by. Outside the serene flower gardens and manicured lawns of gated communities the world was all barbed wire and overflowing dumpsters. In Nine Verges neighbors picnicked and partied outdoors long into the night. Anyone caught outside after dark in the nameless dirty little towns they were passing through, however, would be arrested on the spot. No security-camera-blocking trees lined he streets here. There were cameras in Nine Verges, too, to be sure, but everyone there could be trusted, naturally, so trees were abundant.
The Good Slave Page 4